Desert Rain

It’s hotter than the surface of Venus on a warm day. My hair is plastered to the back of my neck and I can feel little tickling trickles of sweat running down the inside of my shirt. Not for the first time I ask myself what the hell I’m doing driving a ludicrous gas guzzling hire car out into the middle of the desert when I could be back in Vegas sipping ice-cold margheritas poolside and flirting with that rather tasty cocktail waiter. I tug on the wheel and swing the huge gleaming bonnet off the interstate and down a side road. It all comes back to the same thing. Bloody James Bloody Garland. I’ve been politely “asked” as a “favour” to meet up with his old pal Murray McCloud, who apparently has yet another of his country dirge albums due for release.

  I scowl at a perfectly blameless patch of sage brush as I slow down to turn off down a narrow track. Garland’s got me over a barrel and he knows it. During my illustrious career I’ve managed to offend or terrify pretty much all the major editors (and to hospitalise one - but that’s another story). Commissions are pretty thin on the ground nowadays and a girl’s got to keep herself in beer and fags. That reminds me…I grab the packet off the dashboard, light up and run over the little I know about McCloud in my head.

  Murray McCloud, once one half of the popular but naff duo Cloud Castle. The other half being the now deceased Juliet Castleton, a shy fey kind of girl with hair like a cloud of thistledown and a voice that could send honey shivers down your spine despite the trash she was singing. She looked like the worst kind of milksop in promotional photos, always standing slightly behind McCloud, clutching her ridiculously cute puppy “Hopscotch”, but I got the feeling there was a bit of spirit there. And there were rumours that the couple’s relationship wasn’t as perfect as their anodyne songs would have you believe. Hmm…Maybe there’s a story here after all.

  I take another painfully dry drag on my cigarette. What else? Well, since Juliet’s death eight years ago McCloud has released album after unsuccessful album of his generic country rock, in increasingly desperate attempts to prove his self proclaimed genius. No fun there. I decide I’m going to focus on the interesting stuff…If I can’t dig up some dirt before the weekend’s out, then I might as well give up and start writing a column for the Daily Mail right now.

  The land is so flat that I can see my destination through the heat haze for about ten miles before I actually get there. The green lawns and gardens that surround the mansion look almost fluorescent against the unending beige and silver that is the most the desert can manage to come up with, colour wise. As I pull up to the large oak gates I notice the sign on one of the pillars “McCloud’s Castle”. Jeeeeeeezus. The man is a grade one pillock. This impression is confirmed when, after having announced myself over the intercom, the gates swing downwards like a miniature drawbridge, to allow me to drive across the deep, dry sand moat to the oasis beyond. If I had any moisture left in my body at this point, I would vomit. As it is, I get the feeling that all that would come out would be a puff of dust and ash.

  The “castle” itself is like something out of the Arabian Nights, only less tasteful. I’m met at the door by Murray’s sister and housekeeper, Thelma McCloud, and whisked though a cool marble lobby and straight upstairs to my room. My attempts at chummy conversation meet with a pursing of thin lips and a narrowing of eyes. I can tell she’s already judged me and found me wanting. When we get to the room, which contains a real four poster bed, she revolves abruptly to face me and blurts out harshly “Don’t you try talking about Juliet now, girl. I won’t have you upsetting him”. As I turn my most winning smile on her, we’re interrupted by a wheezing, hissing noise and an ancient dog drags itself into the room, tail wagging feebly and rheumy eyes straining to focus.

 “Is that…Hopscotch?” I ask, unbelieving. “Yep.” She replies, shortly, and scoops the ancient mutt up and exits, leaving me alone to wonder just what the hell I’ve got myself into.


Much later that evening I meet Murray McCloud for the first time. After letting me kick my heels for several hours, he finally summons me down for drinks and a light supper on the terrace at about nine. I arrive in a filthy mood - if he wants a favourable review he’s not exactly going about it the right way.

  Still, I’ve put the afternoon to good use. A quick google on my trusty laptop uncovered a wealth of conspiracy theories and speculation surrounding Juliet’s death. There was even a picture of her corpse; in a pretty nasty state after a week or so in Pyramid Lake, sodden blonde hair clinging to her bloated face, the eyes just empty sockets. Clicking quickly through the pages I read that when she was last seen she had been in good spirits, on her way to a meeting in Vegas with Cloud Castle’s PR man, Gabriel Stevens. She stopped to fill up her car at a gas station just outside Henderson at about midday. After that, nothing. She just never showed up to the meeting. Two weeks later they’re pulling her body out of a lake nearly 500 miles north of there, naked and pumped full of enough barbiturates to sink a baby battleship...

  What could have happened in the intervening days to make the clean-living golden girl think that going skinny dipping with a gut full of sleeping pills was a Nice Idea? That’s if it was her idea. Bah, I’ve been spending too much time with the web loonies.

  I ruthlessly banish images of Juliet’s final eyeless stare from my thoughts and step forward to shake McCloud’s out-stretched hand.


He’s not quite what I expected. He’s actually quite charming. Over the meal he keeps the chat light, measuring me with his pale blue eyes. The sun slowly goes down over the distant mountains. For one last instant the fading light glows warmly orange on a small white outbuilding at the edge of the desert. Then night falls and the stars start to come out.

  Listening to the whirring of the cicadas and the faint buzz of traffic from the interstate I begin to relax. Time to get down to business.

  “So,” I say lazily, tracing a spiral with my index finger in a small pool of spilt wine on the table, “do you think about Juliet much nowadays?”

  Nothing. Not an iota, not a flicker. He just begins a golfing anecdote as if I hadn’t even spoken.

  I try again.

  “Did Juliet - “

  There’s a peremptory cough behind me. Thelma’s come out to check on her kid brother.

  “Murray, honey, don’t you keep Miss Cash out here yammering all night. I’m sure she’s tired after her journey.”

  “Sorry Leona,” he says. “Guess we don’t get much company these days. It’s kind of nice to have a new set of ears to bore with my golf stories.”

  The golf stories I can stand, I think to myself. It’s your dreary country rock that makes me want to shove a cactus in my ears.

  As if he’s read my mind he continues with a boyish grin; “’Sides we want you to get up nice and fresh tomorrow to hear my new album.”

  Oh Joy. I let Thelma lead me away and up the stairs to my room. At the door she pauses as if debating with herself about something.

  “He did love her you know,” she says softly, finally. I wait. After a pause she continues in a rush.

  “See when she died it was like something died inside him too. They’d been working on an album together. He couldn’t bear to finish it. Put the demos in her coffin with her. That was how much she meant to him. He coulda made a packet out of them songs. But it was like to carry on, see, he hadta pretend she’s never existed. Hadta put a full stop under that part of his life. Coupla days later he burnt all her clothes and things. Made a big old pile out there in the desert and just stood there watching them burn. He won’t talk about her and he doesn’t need some snotty British journalist raking up all them feelings again.”

  A malicious glint comes into her piggy little eyes. “This was her room you know.” She sweeps out of the door.

  I get into bed and switch the light off. Well thanks, Thelma. I’m going to get a great night’s sleep now.

  The room is airless and stifling and images of Juliet whirl round and round in my overheated brain for what seems like hours until I nearly jump out of my skin at an icy touch on my hand. A familiar wheezing noise reassures me. Not a spectral drowned hand after all, just a dog’s nose. I reach down and haul Hopscotch up onto the bed with me. He curls up near my feet and suddenly everything’s ok. A few seconds later I’m out like a light.


I will draw a merciful veil over the first part of the next day. Most of it is spent listening to various mixes of Murray’s new album. “Is this one better?“ “Do you think the slide guitar should be up in the mix here?“ I bite my tongue reluctantly, it would be like kicking a teddy bear. Besides, I can write a proper review once I’m out of here and won’t have to actually see him sobbing.

  After lunch, apparently it’s siesta time. Murray and Thelma disappear off into the cool dark bowels of the palace for a little shut-eye. Well anything that delays the aural torture for a couple more hours is fine by me. It’s too bloody hot to sleep though. I slap factor 200 sunscreen on my exposed bits and head outside to explore.

  As I wander around the grounds it soon becomes apparent that all is not well in Eden. What looked from a distance like an unbroken swathe of green lawn is on closer examination dotted with withered patches where the sprinkler system has failed. Around the corner a cracked swimming pool in the shape of a cloud holds nothing but a drift of sand and a dead lizard. Not surprising I suppose. This place must cost a small fortune to keep up and McCloud’s last six albums haven’t exactly gone platinum. Pewter at best.

  I walk past the terrace. Off on the edge of the desert is the small white outbuilding I glimpsed last night. With nothing better to do I walk out towards it.

  As I reach it I realise that it’s entirely made of white marble; it’s almost blinding in the noon light and I begin to get the uneasy feeling that I already know what I‘m going to find. I’m right of course. Grecian style columns and a flat roof encase a raised plinth on which is displayed an impressive marble sarcophagus. An inscription on it in faded gold leaf reads “Juliet is the Sun”. Touching. I walk slowly round the huge stone coffin. On the far side Hopscotch is slumped despondently in a small patch of shade. When he sees me his tail wags feebly, but he doesn’t raise his head. It’s getting too hot too move. I slide down gratefully into the shade next to him and fall into a light doze with my back against the plinth.


“Leona? Leona, Honey?” The sound of McCloud’s nasal southern twang in the distance wakes me with a start from confused dreams of dark claustrophobic heat and unbearable thirst. I can feel a head-ache coming on, so before I head back to the studio for the promised afternoon torture session I nip up to my room and grab the bottle of Glen Morangie I keep in my suitcase for emergencies. If this doesn’t qualify as one I don’t know what does.

  I enter the studio and hold the bottle out before me like a shield.

  “Care for a drink , Murray?” At first he demurs, but after I promise faithfully not to tell Thelma he unbends and accepts a couple of fingers worth.

  The afternoon passes. The music doesn’t get any more bearable, but at least I get drunker. Murray breaks out a bottle of mescal. And then another bottle of mescal. He’s been matching me drink for drink - more fool him. Another couple and I might just bring up the subject of Juliet again…

  It’s only when McCloud reaches over and flips on a light switch that I realise the sky outside has been darkening for some time. Big black clouds are looming in the heavens. How very Southern Gothic, how very droll. I give a little giggle and splosh more mescal into my glass. This stuff’s got quite a kick to it. Note to self: be sure to bring a couple of bottles back to dear ol’ blighty. Dear, dear old blighty. Dear, dear…

  “Eh? What’s that?” Murray has been rabbiting on intently for some time, and I haven’t heard a word. His face looks very serious, and very red. His eyes are screwed up and moist.

  “I said,” he says deliberately, annunciating each word very precisely. It’s obviously taking all his concentration to do so. “It’s a heap of crap, ain’t it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My new album Desert Rain. It’s terrible. Just like the last five. It’s a crock of shit. They’re ALL crocks of shit.” His voice is starting to rise.

  “Er…Well…”

  “No,” he sweeps an arm out in a generous gesture, knocking a framed photo of himself with John Denver to the carpet, “don’t try to deny it!”

  “Nothing could have been further from my mind,” I answer honestly. “Have another drink.”

  He grabs the bottle and takes an impressive swig, then glowers at me for a second. There’s something in his eyes I don’t quite like. It’s like the smooth talking charmer of last night was just a thin layer of paint. The alcohol is beginning to wash that layer away, and something much more dangerous is being revealed. Like taking the turps to a picture of some fluffy kittens and uncovering a tiger.

  “You think SHE was the one with the talent don’t you?” He says thickly, belligerence starting to creep into the self pity. “They all do. Even Thelma. But let me tell you, she’d still be working in that cocktail bar if it wasn’t for me. I MADE her.”

  I can’t resist it. I raise my sweet, sweet voice in beautiful song. “You were working as a waitress in a cockta-il ba-ar, when I met you…”

  “Shut the CRAP up!” He roars and knocks the glass from my hand. I decide to do as he suggests.

  There’s a brief silence. I try and fail to gather my addled thoughts.

  “You know what, Leona honey?” Murray says calmly. “I can’t even keep up the payments on this place.” He laughs. “McCloud’s Castle is going under.”

  “I’m very sorry about that - “

  “The HECK you are!” His face starts to screw up again and I’m worried he’s going to burst into tears. But no. He rises unsteadily to his feet. “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” I slur as he grabs my hand and strides purposefully out of the studio. I just manage to snatch the half full bottle of mescal from the table as we go past.

  “You want to hear some more Juliet. The fans wants to hear some more Juliet. I’m going to GET them some more Juliet.”


Outside he heads towards a small tool shed, grabs a rusty pick-axe and sets off towards the bottom of the garden, still dragging me behind him by the hand, like a naughty child. The sky is roiling with big dark thunderheads.

  With a sick lurch I realise what he intends to do. The master tapes to the final Cloud Castle album…B-Buried with Juliet…I swallow painfully and try to wrench my hand free from his grasp.

  I start to babble. “Murray. I really like your album. It’s lovely. Just my cup of tea. That Juliet was nothing but a bimbo. Everyone knew it. You were the real talent, Murray. Murray? Shall we sit down for a bit and talk about this. Murray?”

  We’ve reached the sepulchre. He finally lets go my hand and gives me a long look. “Too late,” he says. “Too darn late.”

  He raises the pick-axe and takes a swing at the huge marble coffin. It barely chips it. I want to leave, but my legs have turned to spaghetti. “Fuck it,” I mutter and sink to the ground a few yards away. I sit up to watch and light a fag with trembling hands.

  “Leona, my dear,” I say to myself conversationally, “how the Bloody Hell do you manage to get yourself into these situations?” The bottle of mescal is lying to the right of me. I uncork it with my teeth and take a small ladylike sip. Hopscotch appears from around the corner of the pedestal and starts barking at McCloud furiously. McCloud is starting to get somewhere with his onslaught on the coffin, marble chips are flying everywhere.

  “You really should be wearing safety goggles,” I find myself saying, and then burst out laughing at the thought. There’s a sudden shout from the house. The noise has alerted Thelma, who comes running out towards us, fat little legs going ninety to the dozen. “Come and join the party!” I shout to her encouragingly, waving the bottle at her.

  Suddenly everything happens at once.

  Thelma reaches us, shouting “NO, stop it! She’ll see!”. I say, “I’ll see what?”. McCloud takes a last swing at the sarcophagus and the lid breaks in two, half of it falling to the ground. He staggers back, entangling his legs with Hopscotch who is still barking. And falls. And falls backward. And falls backward somehow twisting onto the pick-axe.

  There is a sound like a dry squelch as the point of the pick-axe pierces his abdomen. I can see the end of it emerging from his front, and a sly cloud of blood starts to spread across his denim shirt. Fuck. Fuck.

  I get to my feet and walk towards him. He’s making gurgling noises. But my gaze is drawn to the half open coffin. I can’t help it, I have to see.

  Juliet is there. She’s mummified from the desert air. Her hands reach towards the lid of the coffin like claws. Her face is drawn back in a grimace of pain. Dry and lipless, nonetheless it’s clear that she was no drowned corpse. She was put in there alive.

  “The girl in the lake?” I say, but it’s not really a question. “That wasn’t her was it?”

  Thelma just cradles Murray’s head in her arms and looks at me daggers. “She got above herself,” she says defiantly. “He had no choice. The floozy in the lake was convenient. Will you Goddamn help me here?” Her voice rises towards a scream.

  With a big Splot! A raindrop falls down next to me. It’s followed by another and another. How fucking unbelievably perfect. I stare into the coffin. The master tapes are there alright, but the desert climate has done its work on them, like it has on Juliet. They’re nothing but rusty-black powder.

  Aw, fuck it. I grab the bottle of mescal and start to walk back towards the house, and my car. A tiny whining noise stops me in my tracks. Hopscotch looks at me with big brown eyes. I sigh.

  “Alright boy,” I say, “How do you think you’d like England?” I gather him in my arms and leave.